The first thing to return was the cold. It seeped through her thin undershirt, a deep, biting chill from the metal floor beneath her. It was a hostile cold. Unnatural. Not the damp cold of a forest floor or the dry chill of a desert night. This was the cold of a morgue slab.
Eva Rostova’s head throbbed in time with a slow, heavy pulse. She tasted blood, coppery and thick, on her tongue. A groan escaped her raw throat. She tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled and gave way. Pain lanced through her ribs. Cracked, if not broken.
Her eyes cracked open. The light was a single, harsh white panel overhead, buzzing faintly. It bleached all color from the small, square room. Grey walls. Grey floor. Grey ceiling. All metal. A cell. No, not a cell. A cage.
The last memory fought its way through the fog. The scream of plasma fire. The smell of burning earth and ozone. The weight of Sergeant Miller collapsing on top of her. The guttural shouts of the enemy. K’tharr. She’d been captured.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to rise in her throat, but years of training slammed it back down. Assess. Adapt. Overcome. She was Lieutenant Eva Rostova. She was a soldier. She would not break.
She forced herself into a sitting position, back against the cold wall. Her fatigues were torn, stained with dirt and blood—hers and others’. She cataloged her injuries. A deep gash on her forearm, already crudely sealed with some kind of alien coagulant. The screaming protest from her ribs. The lump on the back of her head. Nothing she couldn’t fight through. She was alive. That was the first battle won.
The room was bare. No bunk, no toilet, just a small ventilation grate near the ceiling. Sealed. The only feature was the door opposite her. A solid slab of the same grey metal, no handle, no window.
A soft hiss broke the silence.
Eva’s head snapped up. Her muscles tensed, coiling with adrenaline. Her hand instinctively went to her hip, searching for the sidearm that wasn’t there. She was defenseless. Naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothes.
The door slid open with near-silent efficiency.
The figure standing there filled the entire frame. He had to stoop to enter. He was a mountain. Taller than any man she’d ever seen, with shoulders that seemed twice as wide. Slate-grey skin stretched tight over thick, corded muscle. He wore black fatigues, simple and functional, but they did nothing to hide the sheer brutal power of his frame. A K’tharr.
His face was hard angles and predatory lines. No softness anywhere. His eyes were black, flat chips of obsidian that fixed on her with an unnerving lack of emotion. He wasn’t looking at her like an enemy soldier. He was looking at her like a piece of equipment.
His voice came out, not as a shout, but as a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the metal floor and up her spine. It was a physical force.
"On your feet."
Defiance was her only weapon left. It was the core of who she was. She stared back at him, forcing her own gaze to be as hard as his. She dredged up the saliva in her dry mouth.
"Go to hell," she spat. The words felt weak, thin in the sterile air.
He didn't react. Not for a second. Then he moved.
It wasn't a walk, it was an explosion of motion. Two long strides and he was on her, his speed a terrifying contrast to his immense size. Before she could even flinch, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her torn uniform. He hauled her to her feet as if she weighed nothing and slammed her back against the wall.
The impact was a bright flash of pain. Her head cracked against the metal, and the air rushed out of her lungs in a choked gasp. Her feet dangled, barely brushing the floor. He held her there with one hand, his arm a rigid bar of iron against her chest. She was pinned. Helpless. The sheer, overwhelming difference in their strength was a crushing reality.
His black eyes scanned her, cold and analytical. Then his other hand came up. He didn't unbutton or unzip. He simply hooked his thick fingers into the collar of her ripped fatigues and tore.
RRRRIP.
The sound was shockingly loud in the small room. The tough, reinforced fabric gave way like paper. He ripped her undershirt away with the same brutal efficiency. Cool, sterile air hit her bare skin. Her breasts, her stomach, her arms—all exposed under that merciless white light. She shuddered, a mix of cold and raw, visceral humiliation.
He dropped the shredded fabric to the floor. His gaze moved down, and with another grunt of effort, he ripped her pants away, belt and all. The sound of tearing fabric and popping buttons echoed her own internal breaking. He left her in nothing but her thin, practical underwear. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked a finger under the waistband of her panties and tore them away, too.
Now she was completely naked. Every scar, every mark, every inch of her flesh was laid bare for his inspection. The cold of the wall was a solid shock against her back. The heat of his body was a furnace in front of her. She was trapped between the two.
Her mind, the disciplined soldier’s mind, screamed. It raged. It cursed him in three languages. But her body was a traitor. It trembled, not just from fear, but from the shock of his raw, physical dominance.
His gaze started at her face, then moved down with a slow, methodical pace. This was not the leering look of a predator. It was worse. It was the detached assessment of a farmer checking livestock.
His low rumble filled the room again, not directed at her, but more like a verbal inventory. "Subject is human female. Approximately 1.7 meters in height. Lean muscle mass."
His free hand came up, the skin rough as sandstone. He traced the line of her collarbone. She flinched, a violent, involuntary jerk. His grip on her throat tightened just enough to be a warning. Still.
"Shoulders are broad, but the bone structure is not overly heavy," he rumbled, his thumb pressing into the junction of her neck and shoulder. "Wiry. Signs of extensive physical conditioning."
His hand moved lower, over her breasts. He didn't cup them or squeeze them. He prodded them once, clinically, as if checking their density. "Mammary glands are adequately developed. Firm."
Eva squeezed her eyes shut. Humiliation burned like acid in her throat. She tried to retreat into her own mind, to find the place of iron discipline where nothing could touch her. But the feeling of his rough skin on hers, the vibration of his voice through her bones, it was impossible to ignore.
His gaze, and then his hand, moved to her stomach. Her muscles were tight, a rigid wall of defiance. He ran his thumb over the faint, silvery scar on her lower abdomen, a reminder of a shrapnel wound from two years ago. "Abdominal scarring noted. Superficial. Internal organs should be unimpeded."
His hand slid lower, from her stomach to her hips. His grip was immense. His large hands spanned the width of her hip bones easily, his thumbs pressing into the flesh above them. He squeezed, measuring.
"Hips are wide," he declared, a note of something… not approval, but confirmation, in his voice. "Pelvic structure is sound. Suitable."
Suitable for what? The question screamed in her head, but she already knew the answer. The cold dread coalescing in her gut was a certainty.
He released her hips and his hand slid down her thigh, testing the muscle. "Legs are strong. Well-muscled. Good for carrying a heavy load. A heavy litter."
A litter. The word hit her like a physical blow. Not a child. Not a baby. A litter. Like a dog. Like an animal bred for a purpose.
He bent his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the juncture of her thighs. She instinctively tried to press her legs together, but his grip on her throat held her pinned and immobile. She felt his gaze on her pussy, her bare clit, her folds. It wasn't a look of desire. It was a look of inspection. Of confirming all the necessary parts were present and accounted for.
"No signs of disease or defect," he grunted.
He had cataloged her. Piece by piece. Stripped her down not just from her uniform, but from her identity. She wasn't Lieutenant Rostova anymore. She wasn't a soldier. She was a collection of parts. A frame. A set of hips. A vessel.
He finally seemed satisfied. He straightened up, his black eyes meeting hers one last time. There was no triumph in them, no malice. Just a flat, final finality.
"The stock is adequate," he stated, the words sealing her fate. "You will serve."
With that, he released her.
She didn't fall gracefully. She crumpled. Her legs gave out and she slid down the cold metal wall, landing in a heap on the floor. The chill of the metal was a fresh shock against her bare ass and back. She wrapped her arms around herself, a pathetic attempt to cover her nakedness, to hold herself together.
He turned his back on her, as if she no longer warranted his attention. He strode to the door, his heavy boots making no sound on the metal. The door hissed open. He stepped through without a backward glance.
The door slid shut, the lock engaging with a heavy, damning thud.
Eva was left alone in the cold, silent, white room. Naked. Broken. Her defiance was a pile of ash in her mouth. The soldier was gone, stripped away and discarded on the floor with the shreds of her uniform. All that was left was a woman, shivering and exposed, her captor's final words echoing in the oppressive silence.
You will serve.
